


Tribute

by morgan_cian



Series: Story Snippets [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:51:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan_cian/pseuds/morgan_cian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Absolute power corrupts absolutely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tribute

Lord Balron’s fingers tapped against the smooth wood of the arm rest. Two taps, a pause, and two taps again, over and over. Tribute was a painful affair for both the commoners living on the lands that were his by birth and for himself.

Sheer boredom at the stale pageantry that echoed the hallowed traditions of the fading monarchies and the titles given due to blood rather than titles earned them through war and valor. Even now, Vallarium and Hepsis teemed with industry, marking gold from hand to hand through the trade of goods. Instead of tribute to an overlord with the paltry hope of protection.

He sighed again, parchment presented to him with a dob of hot wax to notate a family of four’s tribute of two sickly chickens that were more bone than anything else. He would remember the chickens when he sent Jaren to stock coops with healthy chicks that would feed both family and suffer the indignity of tribute lest they starve.

The line seemed never ending and his nerves were fractious, the swell in his temper rising. Not at the commoners whom he great respect for. Or even the meager tribute that would be parceled back out somehow. His uncles ignored him for the most part. As long as the estate and its keep stayed in good repair and he honored tradition, he was on his own. The fight about an heir was still off in the horizon.

No, he was hot and thirsty; the ridiculous mantle that he wore itched. He could drink an entire jug of elderberry wine in one go. And thinking of warm, healthy succulent chicken roasted over a spit made his stomach growl. He was not so uncouth to flaunt resources given to him for the sake of his name before hard working men and woman.

And finally it was over, no more chickens or goats or lumpy stacks of burlap. It was just the scribe and Jaren directing staff to clean the hall of straw and unfortunate piles of animal excrement, when there was timid cough in the back of the room that captured his attention and barely stifled groan.

It was an old farmer, gaunt, yellow teeth, and spidery veins on saggy cheeks. Eyes were rheumy and murky. A gnarled hand curled about a youth’s shoulder, claw like in the way it clutched at flesh and faded material.

Jaren stepped in front of his Lord with his hands held up for halt. “The Tribute is over good sire.”

Surprisingly strong, the old man shoved the youth to the floor and spat a wad of spittle onto the stone floors.

“Ain’t paid my tribute to me lord, name’s Biggens, mark it down. This boy’ll be enough to pay me tribute until I am dead in the ground an’ feedin’ them worms.”

Balron’s stomach dropped. He was about to protest loudly. He knew using youth as payment of tribute was done at other estates especially on the borders of the monarchy’s land. But not here, not in his home, he could hear Jaren protesting loudly as his own words stalled. He was going to deny the tribute. He had every intention to.

Until the world stopped along with the breath in his chest, the boy lifted his head, dark eyes of honey brown marred by a healing bruise.

A dark possessive thought raised its own ugly head in heated possession. Mine, my marks, his most base thoughts pounded through him. Stilling Jaren’s protests with a wave of his hand, he made his way to the boy. He ignored the gleam of wicked avarice and greed from the old man.

He reached down, with a gentle but firm hand beneath the knob of elbow, and lifted the boy back to his feet. Boy was appropriate, lean lines along his face, cheeks freshly hollowed from baby fat, muscled but not too bulky. Broad shoulders and a narrow waist, dressed in dirty ragged clothes, it looked as if the youth had not bathed in quite awhile. Smelled the same as well.

His hair, though matted, had the potential to be as soft and luxurious as a raven’s wing. Full pouty lips to match the eyes of whiskey glowing in firelight, Balron’s hands tightened on the boy’s shoulders and drew him closer. Shy, the boy ducked his chin, hiding those haunting eyes.

Lust and want flooded Balron, to have this boy in his bed and kneeling at his feet. Just as the royalty of old, it was his birthright, by blood.

Glancing to the farmer, he snapped out, “This is your son?”

“Venus’ tits, Lord, naw, my dead daughter’s bastard child. Had to wait til he grew up a bit, knew you’s wouldn’t take a young un’.”

“My Lord,” Jaren sputtered.

“Mark down the tribute, Jaren,” He replied. Cupping the boy’s chin and lifting until he could see those eyes once more. Dragging his thumb across the full chapped lower lip, he had plans for that mouth and soon. “And get him a bath.”

His best friend was dumbstruck but did not protest. He led the boy away, slim shoulders slumped and steps dragging.

The farmer was almost out of the chamber when Balron shook himself out of his stupor. “What is his name?”

Hacking up a cough as he laughed, the farmer shrugged bony shoulders, “No name, he’s yers now, Lord.”

Standing alone in his hall, Lord Balron’s hands clenched.

Mine


End file.
